


the best starbucks in the world

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Anya really doesn't want to be fired from another job, but the guy at the front of her Starbucks line isnot helping.





	the best starbucks in the world

**Author's Note:**

> i really wanted to try out a modern au for this fandom, so i just... dipped my toe in the water to see where it took me!

****The golden rule of being a barista is to keep the line moving. The jerk currently at the front of Anya’s line is _not helping._

She drums her worn fingernails against the counter, trying to smother down the frustration steadily rising inside of her. It’s ridiculous; this guy is puzzling over the menu like it’s the Davinci Code. His every movement feels lazy, like he’s dragging it out just for the pleasure of watching Anya squirm.

“Well,” he sighs, somehow drawing the single-syllable word out into four. “I guess that one thing looks good? The mah-chi-to? What the hell is a mahchito?”

The customer next to him — a _nice_ man, Vlad, a regular to the shop and a gentleman as far as Anya’s concerned — heaves a long suffering sigh. It couldn’t be more obvious that he regrets bringing his friend along today. The only one who regrets it more is Anya.

“That’s a _macchiato,”_ she replies, voice tight with annoyance. “Is that what you want?”

“Hold on, I haven’t looked at everything yet.” He waves his hand at her, as if _she’s_ the irrational one here. “I’m still reading.”

He’s been reading for he past five minutes. The line behind him is nearly reaching the door, and with every second the customers grow more impatient. Anya can see their glares, hear their mutters, and dreads having to serve a line of very annoyed caffeine-deprived patrons.

That is, if this jerk ever orders.

“Ooh, I like that one,” he exclaims suddenly. “Vlad, what do you think?”

“I think you shouldn’t have been dropped at birth,” Vlad deadpans.

The awful man grins. “From you, that’s glowing praise.” He turns back to the counter, slamming his hands down on the edge, and nods firmly. “Okay! I’ll have that.”

Anya grits her teeth. It takes all of her considerable self control to keep from punching the guy in the face. (The _last_ time she tried that with a customer, things had not gone over well, and she was banned from any further employment at _Dunkin’ Donuts.)_ “What?” she grinds out.

He points. “That one!”

There’s no doubt in her mind: he’s doing this on purpose. She knows exactly what the hell is going on here. This guy is torturing her on purpose, and he’s _enjoying_ it.

She forces a smile onto her face; with luck, it expresses every iota of her overwhelming urge to strangle him. “You need to tell me,” she sing-songs, “or else I won’t be able to serve you.”

He huffs. “Well, that’d just be a huge waste of my time, wouldn’t it?”

Finally, Vlad seems to be fed up. “Just tell her what you want! My caramel creme peppermint mocha is going to be _iced_ by the time you’re done!”

He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Vlad swings a newspaper at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. Anya comforts herself by imagining it was a brick. As his friend stalks away, the Worst Man In The World laughs again.

“Wow!” he exclaims, turning back to Anya with a grin on his face. “Can you believe _that?”_

That someone could be tempted to hit him? She’s astonished. “Your order,” Anya hisses. _“Please.”_

He slams his hand on the top of the counter again, jarring her. “Okay, all I want is a grande iced caramel _macchiato_ with two pumps of sugar free vanilla, soy milk, cinnamon…”

Anya’s frustration somehow doubles. Her hands fly across the screen, tapping in the order as fast as humanly possible. The sooner she can see this guy out the door, the better her day will be. At least he’s finally, _finally_ given up the game…

“Oh,” he says, “and seventeen sugar packets.”

At once, the entire world seems to screech to a stop. Anya’s hands are frozen; her mouth is stuck open as if it’s rusted that way. She lifts her head, slowly going pale.

_“Seventeen?”_

“Se-ven-teen,” he insists.

That’s the final straw. Anya sees red. She’s going to _murder_ him. If that amount of sugar doesn’t short out all his viral organs and make him drop dead on the spot, she’s going to _kill this man._

“You,” she declares, “need to stop!”

He laughs in her face. “All I want is sugar!”

“Too much sugar!” She cant help raising her voice; and now that she’s yelling, of course, there’s no chance that she’s going to stop. She’s too furious, too tired, and too underpaid to deal with any of this. “Do you have a death wish? Huh? Do you hate yourself?”

His eyes widen. “Whoa! Pipe down, you wanna lose your job?”

“Yeah, you clearly do! Seventeen sugars is how you _die!”_

“If I wanna die, I’ll do it on my own time!” the guy snaps back, raising his voice as well. His composure still hasn’t broken (he’s still smug and infuriatingly amused) but hearing him yell back at her gives Anya a twisted  
rush of satisfaction.

She braces herself against he counter, leaning forward to holler in his face. “I am not putting seventeen sugars in your drink!”

“Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right’?” he demands, getting just as close. She resists the urge to blow in his face; but she desperately wants to do _something_ to smack out that infuriating spark of delight in his eyes. (Brown eyes. He has _amazing_ chestnut brown eyes, and something about them seems to glow, and Anya _hates_ them.)

“You’re not right! You’re wrong!”

“How can I be wrong when I’m the one ordering?”

“I’m the one ordering _your_ drink, and I’m telling you you’re wrong! Your entire _existence_ is wrong!”

“Say that again!”

“You’re wrong!”

She screams the last words in his face, and finally feels empty. Her anger has drained away; the euphoria of getting to scream at this guy overpowers everything else, even the knowledge that she’s got an audience of waiting customers and is going to catch hell with her boss later. It feels so good to just _scream._ She breathes heavily, shoulders heaving, her face flushed. She can’t help locking gazes with the man in front of her.

 _Brown eyes,_ she realizes again, and a wave of delirium washes over her. She hadn’t realized they were so close; in fact, they’re mere centimeters away from each other, divided only by the space of a breath. She can drink in every part of him in exquisite detail, from the dark pools of his eyes, to his fine eyebrows, his pink lips, the way his hair falls over his forehead just like _that…_

 _I hate him,_ she thinks, a second before she kisses him.

She’s not sure what she expected, but gentleness could never have crossed her mind until his lips met hers. She’s taken aback by how carefully he kisses her; fervent, but cautious, as if he knows what he wants but is afraid of taking it. She leans into him and he makes a soft noise of surprise, pushing back. His hand comes up to cup the back of her head, and she feels long fingers run through her hair.

When they pull away, Anya’s world is spinning. Everything feels brighter somehow, sounds sharper, colors more vivid. She can feel his breath against her mouth, see the startled rise and fall of his chest. The spark of delight has fled from his wide eyes. Finally, _finally,_ he is no longer laughing.

“My name’s Dmitry,” he offers belatedly.

“Anya,” she mutters. It’s hard to recognize her own voice; she’s too distracted by the lingering burn of her lips. His gaze is still locked with hers, and she’s not sure she can pull away.

It takes a long moment for either of them to recover themselves. Dmitry clears his throat, still not looking away from her. “So, uhh… I’ll just take a black coffee,” he says. “And maybe your number?”

She huffs a laugh. “That’s against company policy.”

“Hey, customer is always right.” He shrugs, too easy, nervous, infuriating. “What time do you get off?”

She has absolutely no clue what she’s doing; then again, does she ever? She laughs out loud, and gives up. “Be here at six,” she says, and his entire face brightens. “We can go anywhere that isn’t here.”

The last thing she l wants is to face Dmitry across a counter ever again. When they’re both on the other side, however…

Well, maybe she can tolerate him.

Dmitry grins; she can’t help grinning back.

“This,” shouts Vlad from somewhere in the background, “is the last time I ever take you to Starbucks!”


End file.
